


Call Me Maybe

by winterkill



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Jon Snow, Dirty Talk, Hipster Westeros, Inspired by too much Carly Rae Jepsen, M/M, Phone Sex, Satin Flowers the phone sex operator, Smut, Wingman Sansa, background Sam/Gilly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:55:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22397440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterkill/pseuds/winterkill
Summary: Jon Snow just can't stop thinking about his conversations with phone sex operator Satin Flowers.
Relationships: Satin Flowers/Jon Snow
Comments: 32
Kudos: 110





	Call Me Maybe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Haicrescendo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haicrescendo/gifts).



> Yes, the title of this fic is really what you think it is. 
> 
> This is FILTH, but goddamn did I have fun writing it. This is what happens when I listen to Carly Rae Jepsen and write fic. 
> 
> If you haven't read _One Good, Honest Kiss_ , this fic takes place in the same universe. It picks up roughly a year after, but none of it really matters. All you need to know is modern Westeros is FILLED with hipsters.

"Jon, you look like you need to get your cock wet."

Theon slams his pilsner down on the butcher-block table, and Jon wants to slam his forehead down next to it. At least the beer at Blackwater Brewery is _good_ , and Jaime will give anyone a discount who’s friends with Brienne. 

He hasn't hung out with Robb and Theon simultaneously in over a year, and now he remembers why; it's because Theon is _fucking_ annoying. 

Robb is the buffer between them--literally and figuratively. He’s sitting between them now, grinning, like he’s ready to smooth the joke from Theon’s crudeness to something Jon will find more palatable.

“Theon--”

“Why don’t you let my cock mind its own business?” Jon snaps.

“Because it _has_ no business, Jon,” Theon grins, “It’s going to mutiny, citing neglect.”

“ _Shut up.”_

“I just want to hang out with you two while we’re all in King’s Landing,” Robb laments.

 _It’s not me, it’s Theon,_ Jon wants to yell, like they’re eight and playing on the playground. Theon is the type of friend that’s been around so _long_ that Jon weathers everything that pisses him right the fuck off because of the sheer tenure of their acquaintance.

If he met Theon, today, Jon would punch him--and no amount of fondness for his cousin Robb would stop him.

“We’re hanging out,” Theon replies, “And I’m just trying to do my oldest friend a solid.”

Robb shakes his head, “I don’t think Jon is interested in the kind of solid you’re doing him.”

“Can we talk about something else, please?” Showing Theon an _inch_ of weakness is just asking for a ribbing. “Like, _anything_ else. Robb, talk for an hour about how much you love Jeyne Westerling.”

“I want to marry her,” Robb sounds wistful, “You _have_ to meet her.”

“Ugh, Jon,” Theon makes a gagging sound, “how is this better?”

It isn’t, but it’s the lesser of the two shitty choices.

* * *

Three hours later, Jon hits his social interaction quota, and he excuses himself. 

“Let’s do it again tomorrow!” Theon yells as he’s paying his tab, “There’s so many places to pick up chicks here.”

“Theon,” Robb starts, “Jon might not be interested--”

“It’s fine,” Jon says, “I’d rather help Theon than listen to him talk about my private life.”

Robb looks concerned; Jon just waves a hand dismissively.

It’s winter in King’s Landing, which means he’s wearing a hoodie while all the natives are bundled up like they’re taking a tour of the ruins of the Wall. He laughed with Sansa and Arya about that on more than one occasion since moving here. 

_The North would kill them in an hour._

The coolness is pleasant--it cuts through the buzz from the beers and provides a balm for the irritation simmering under Jon’s skin. He shouldn’t let Theon get to him; he’s been like this since they were children. Enough repeated exposure dulls the effect, but months without seeing Theon makes the abrasiveness feel fresh. 

_I should know better._

Robb would tell him that Theon means well, and to let it roll off his back. It’s the same thing Robb has been telling him for nearly two decades, and it just...doesn’t work. If they go out tomorrow, Theon will try shove one woman after another in Jon’s direction until he wants to scream.

Jon just...isn’t in the place right now.

The last woman Jon was with was Ygritte, and it ended poorly. There’d been no one serious since then, just a hook-up or two that didn’t bear remembering or repeating. The last person Jon looked at, _really_ looked at, was Jaime. Purely aesthetically, of course--he could only congratulate Brienne because she was his _friend_ , and she suffered through games of _Night’s Watch_ twice a month. 

Jon hadn’t considered the gap between himself and his peers until puberty hit. Theon and Robb would sit at the lunch table, looking at girls. Theon was the cruder of the two, even then, but Robb, observations more innocent, noticed just as many. Jon noticed the girls, too, but occasionally a guy would catch his eye.

It didn’t take long to notice that neither Robb orTheon varied their appraisals in such a way.

And, in over a decade, Jon has _never_ said anything to either of them. They all separated after high school, and the distance made it less relevant. They were _too_ close, and something about that made them harder to tell. Maybe they’d judge him, or maybe the thought of Theon turning his trainwreck seduction tactics to picking up men for Jon is just _too fucking much._

So Jon told Sam, and Sansa, and Brienne inferred, and _that_ was good because they were the people he chose to share it with.

He’s waiting for the bus when his phone buzzes. Some preternatural sense makes Jon wary of taking his phone out; the text is surely from Theon. At best, It’s going to be some blonde undergrad’s phone number--at worst, it’s going to be a picture of that same undergrad’s breasts.

Sighing, he takes his phone out. It’s _not_ boobs, but it is a phone number, and it _is_ from Theon.

 _Try this!_ the text reads, followed by the number.

Jon knows better than to just call the number, so he runs a web search on it, glaring at the results.

“What the _fuck_ , Theon?”

* * *

“It’s...a phone sex hotline,” Sam says when Jon gets home. He’s sitting on the couch with Gilly, and they look cozy, and delightful, and Jon is _not_ envious. If he looks even the slightest bit wistful, Sam will pick up on it, make room on the couch, and Jon will be the most awkward third wheel.

“It’s Theon’s idea of a joke.”

“It’s not funny,” Gilly says, “Sex work, even this legal gray area, is largely unregulated, and filled with all sorts of abuse.” She works as a midwife in the clinic two floors above Jon’s office, and has more horrible stories than Jon cares to recount.

“It’s not illegal,” Sam says, slowly, and Gilly scowls, “but _why?”_

“He thinks I’m...in a dry spell,” Jon says, “Not that I’ve seen him in a year, and not that he knows shit, but I guess I wasn’t enthusiastic enough as we barhopped.”

“Gonna call it?” Sam scrolls through the search results, “The reviews are good.”

“ _Ew,”_ Gilly says.

“No,” Jon says, “I’m not gonna call it.”

Later, Jon lays in his twin bed in the darkness, listening to the faint sound of Sam and Gilly having sex the through the thin wall between their rooms. Jon can’t be mad that Sam is _happy_. They’re not especially loud, or inconsiderate in any way. 

He just can’t stop thinking about Theon and the _fucking_ phone number. It’s definitely a side effect of the alcohol, or the weird logic that overcomes him at two in the morning, but Jon keeps thinking…

_It would be so easy, much easier than talking to someone and trying to get them into bed, much easier than that dating app Sansa showed him._

Still, though, Jon’s _not_ going to call it.

* * *

Jon doesn’t call it the next night, either, even after Theon gives him shit over it.

“Did you call it?” Theon slides down the bench and leers at Jon, “No smalltalk or foreplay needed. You can get _right_ to the action. She can be a hot blonde, or a redhead, or whatever you want.”

 _A redhead._ Ygritte. Theon is doing this shit on purpose. 

“I didn’t fucking call it.”

Theon just _laughs_.

* * *

Robb drives Theon to the airport the next afternoon, and Jon is _really_ glad tomorrow is Monday. Work will drive all these stupid, errant thoughts from his head. That was enough weekend galavanting for him. Robb’s visit carries through the week, but Jon’s _always_ glad to see Robb. Robb will want to eat pizza on his couch, or go to see a concert.

 _Anything_ other than drinking.

Robb isn’t single, and doesn’t give a shit if Jon is, or isn’t, fucking someone.

That night, Jon dials halfway through the digits on his phone before deleting them all and throwing his phone to the end of the bed. 

_What the fuck am I thinking?_

* * *

Jon doesn’t think about the phone number the entire day at work. The day, though, is everything he _doesn’t_ want a Monday to be. What he wanted was for a sense of productivity, which he _gets_ , but it’s at the expense of every single one of his co-workers competence.

Except Brienne, who wears the same long-suffering, world-weary expression as him. By lunch, which he takes with her on the roof, Jon unwraps his sandwich, puts it aside, and buries his head in his been knees.

“It’s not that terrible,” Brienne tries to placate him, “and the day is half-over.”

“Four more hours with a broken computer,” Jon laments, “And that kid this morning, Brienne, _how_ did he even--?”

Brienne, in a rare moment, starts _laughing._ “You attract children, I think they like to hug your legs as you walk.”

_And puke on my shoes, and--_

Brienne’s picked up her book again by the time Jon looks up; she turns the pages in between bites of salad. She makes a good lunch partner because she sees it as a time _not_ to socialize.

And, from the cover, that book she’s reading is _filled_ with smut.

* * *

Sam stays over that Gilly’s place that night. Jon’s _alone_ , and it’s like something in the universe is egging him on. The something sounds like Theon’s voice, which _really_ isn’t something Jon wants in his mind.

_I’m gonna call it._

It’s just a...thing. An experiment? People do weirder things than this _all_ the time. Theon is probably doing something more horrifying _right now._ He can laugh about it in a few years. _Hey, remember that one time I called a phone sex hotline?_

It’s like looking at porn.

...Personalized porn?

Jon’s going to chicken out if he over thinks, or if he thinks about it at any length at all. No one will know--well, the person he talks to will know, but that’s not the same as someone he _knows_ knowing. It’s not like it’s going to show on his face the next day; it’s not going to bleed over into real life. He’s not going to go to a coffee shop and have someone look him in the eye and say, “You called a phone sex hotline.”

It’s just... _fantasy_ \--like those books Brienne and Sansa read.

Jon flops back onto his bed and uses those justifications to dial the number. It rings, which nearly makes him drop his phone, even though that’s _utterly_ ridiculous; it would be stranger if it _didn’t_ ring. He doesn’t know what to expect, but being asked whether he wants to speak to a man or a woman isn’t it. The prompt repeats before Jon can make a decision, along with some obscene per minute rate that his bank account is feeling already. 

_Theon expects me to want to speak to a woman._

Theon expects Jon to want a fantasy of Ygritte, or something that _he_ would want. It’s spite, to choose the other option, to do what Theon crudely suggested in a way he wouldn’t want. 

It makes the choice an easy one.

There’s a click, like the call is being transferred; Jon holds his breath and starts to regret the entire venture before it even begins.

Then, _then_ he hears the voice on the other end of the line.

“Hello.”

There’s something about the timbre of it--a pleasant middle-tone that puts Jon at ease immediately, like a blanket, or a cup of coffee on a rainy afternoon. _Sweet_ , he thinks, _like a song_. Like it’s a real person, and not someone Jon’s meant to masturbate to.

“H-hi,” Jon stumbles in his reply. 

“Is this your first time?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s your name?”

Jon thinks, for a moment, of lying and giving a fake name. Then, he imagines the voice, even though barely ten words have been spoken between them, saying his name, and he tells the truth.

It’s a really, really common name, anyway.

“I’m Satin.”

 _Really?_ “Do you use...fake names? Handles?”

Satin chuckles, and it goes _straight_ to a dark, dark place. Then he replies, “Some do, but not me.”

 _Okay, that_ has _to be a lie._

He's silent for long enough that Satin says, "You think I'm lying?"

"I...do."

"I swear, it's the truth. Everyone was jealous because I didn't have to think of one."

Jon gives an awkward chuckle, "What do I…"

"I can be anyone. What do you want?"

 _Oh gods._ So, so many things, and all at once. Things there's no way he can verbalize to a stranger on the phone. "I think," Jon almost doesn't recognize his voice for the breathiness in it, "I just want you to talk to me."

"Who should I be?"

Theon would pull out a scenario like he kept them in a hat. Ygritte was the one who _talked_ , who played games. Jon doesn't want to role-play; he doesn't need an elaborate fantasy. 

No, he just needs a _guide_. 

"Y-yourself," Jon feels woefully underprepared. 

"Alright," he laughs, warm in Jon’s ear, “Satin it is, then.”

“I’m in my bed,” Jon says. _How do people think of these things? This_ is why he can’t get dates.

“A fine venue,” Satin _doesn’t_ sound like he thinks Jon’s an idiot, “What would you have me do?”

“T-touch me,” Jon blurts, “I want someone-- _you_ \--to come in and just--I don’t want to have to _think_.” 

“ _Ah_ , you like to lay back and let your partner do the work.” There’s a teasing edge to Satin’s voice. “I can do that; I _like_ doing that.”

“How?”

“ _Hmmmm_ ,” he draws it the syllable out, “What are you wearing?”

“Sweatpants,” Jon replies, “And a t-shirt. Very unsexy.”

That earns Jon a laugh before Satin continues, “Put your hands behind your head and keep them there, no matter what.”

Jon _listens_ , tucks his hands behind his head atop the pillow. It makes holding the phone awkward, and he doesn’t care. _Nothing_ has happened yet, but his cock is hard in his sweatpants, and he feels the first bits of tension arousal brings in his limbs.

“Okay.”

“Are you a good listener, Jon?”

“...Sometimes,” Jon is honest, “If the reward is good enough, or if I agree with the idea.”

“I _think_ you’ll agree with this one. Is your cock hard?”

“ _Yes.”_

“I pull your pants down, kneel on the bed, and then I suck your cock,” Satin pauses, like he’s giving Jon time to construct the mental image himself. “How do you like it?”

“F-fast,” Jon replies, “I want to--to feel like I’m _drowning_ in it.”

“I’ll do the opposite, then,” Satin replies, coy, “I’ll go _slow_ , draw it out. Can you feel it? The wet heat of my mouth, doing _what_ you want but not _how_ you want it? I’ll drive you to the top, then leave you there. Is that what you want?”

“ _Y-yes_.”

“For how long?”

 _Until I want to die_. “I’ll t-tell you when.”

“ _Now_ you’re bossy.” A pause. “Fine, then, tell me; how does my mouth feel around your cock? Am I _good?”_

“So, _so_ good,” Jon babbles, and he wants to say _more_ \--that he can almost, _almost_ feel it. The details blossom in his mind. The way Satin would use his tongue, how Jon would try _not_ to thrust up into his mouth. Jon isn’t sure he could stop himself, so maybe Satin would press him into the bed, a hand on his hip, to keep him steady. 

“You’re thinking more than you’re saying,” Satin replies.

“S-sorry,” Jon gasps.

“Don’t be; it’s for you.”

There’s something, _something_ about Satin’s voice--like it burrows its way into the part of Jon’s brain that’s fixed on physical pleasure. He might pay money to hear Satin read him someone’s fucking medical chart, which the _least_ sexy thing Jon can think of.

“Jon, do you want to touch me?”

The way Satin says his name; has anyone ever, _ever_ said it like that? Jon wants desperately to reach down and touch himself. He's going to remember this tomorrow and be _mortified_.

“ _Gods, yes.”_

“How would you do it?”

“Hands in your hair--I don’t want you to stop.”

“I won’t.”

Jon gives in, then, because it’s that the point of the fantasy? It’s the work on a moment to slide his hand into his sweatpants and palm his cock. It’s sweet, _sweet_ relief--his breath hitches, and he lets out a breathy moan as he strokes himself.

Satin, on the other end of the line, must be able to _tell._ He chuckles, “We had an agreement, Jon.”

“I know. _I know_ \--”

“How are you touching yourself?”

 _“Fast_ ,” Jon _knows_ what works, even with the overlay of the fantasy. “You’d speed up, if I asked. I want to come--”

“Do it, then,” Satin answers, “I won’t move.”

And, spectacularly, _mind numbingly,_ Jon does.

* * *

_Can I request you?_

_On Mondays and Wednesdays,_ Satin replied, which makes sense because _whoever_ Satin really is, he surely has more to his life than working a phone sex hotline every damn night of the week.

Jon won’t deny that he wakes up in a good mood the next morning. He’s not even pissed about having to launder his sweatpants, or his comforter. Okay, _fine_ , he could’ve been more coordinated. He’s not fucking _twelve_.

He meets Robb and Sansa for pizza after work.

Robb stares him down and says, “You look like you’re in a good mood, a better mood than two days ago.”

“Because Theon’s gone. Or,” Sansa pauses and waves her hands at Jon, “ _or_ he got laid.”

“I didn’t--” Jon stammers.

Not _really._

Not _technically._

He let someone talk him through jacking off and paid a hefty bill for it.

“I know you didn’t, Jon,” Sansa pats his shoulder, “I have a sense about these things.”

“ _Please_ , Sansa,” Robb wilts, “I don’t want to talk about how my baby sister knows anything about _anyone_ getting laid.”

Attention diverted from him, Jon laughs, “If baby sisters bother you, we won’t talk about what Arya’s getting up to with Gendry, then.”

* * *

Wednesday night finds Jon sitting in his room, cell phone in hand.

_I’m gonna do it._

A minute passes.

_I’m not gonna do it._

Sam is over at Gilly’s place, _again_ , and it feels like...fate? The nights wouldn’t line up so perfectly if Jon wasn’t meant to, right? He knows, logically, that a person can justify _anything_ with the right mental gymnastics, but…

He just really, _really_ wants to hear Satin’s voice again.

_And no one has to know._

“Jon, you called again.”

Is it just his imagination, or does Satin sound a bit...surprised?

“I...did,” Jon replies, slowly. He doesn’t know what to say if Satin asks _why_. That Satin’s voice had been in his head for _two days_ , or that he came so hard to the sound of it that it was like getting thrown off a swing set onto his back--wind knocked out of him and _utterly_ blindsided.

“ _Good_ ,” Satin tells him, “I enjoyed our little talk.”

And Satin is flattering him because it’s his _literal_ job, but _gods,_ Jon wants it to be true. In that moment, he’s just desperate enough to convince himself to believe it.

* * *

It takes two weeks for Jon to spot a _problem_ on the horizon.

He’s not an idiot, or not _too_ much of one--he knows the signs of destructive behavior, how one thing leads to another. A series of seemingly banal decisions that lead to a maxed credit card and him _living in a box under a bridge_.

 _Why can’t you pay half of the rent?_ Sam would ask him, genuinely worried.

And Jon would chuckle, awkwardly, and tell Sam that he burned _all_ his rent money spending two nights a week on the phone with a phone sex operator named _Satin_.

So Jon decides to make tonight the _last_ night, and that will be the end of it.

“I’ve never had a regular before,” Satin tells him, tone a _bit_ smug. Jon thinks it must be a lie--Satin’s phone has to be ringing off the hook.

“I...think this might be the last time.”

The line goes silent for a moment before Satin replies, “I should make the most of it for you, then.”

And, really, Jon’s poured out all his ideas in the space of the few hours they’ve spoken. He can hear Theon saying, _You’re so simple_ , _Jon. Paying by the minute and all you can think of is for him to talk about sucking your cock? You could ask for anything,_ anything--

“Satin,” he loves the way the name sounds to him, too--there’s a smoothness to it, like a luxury Jon can touch but can’t afford. “If our positions were reversed, what would you want to hear?”

There’s another patch of silence where Jon is _terrified_ Satin has hung up.

“I’ve--” Satin starts, “No one’s ever asked me that.”

 _Oh._ “Is that…?”

“No! It’s...good.” Another pause. “Can you...send me a picture? Like...a selfie?”

Jon blanches at the idea, which won’t help the quality of the selfie, but he opens the front-facing camera on his phone regardless. He looks...like himself, he supposes. Scowling, grey-eyed, the dark hair of a Stark despite not being one in name. It’s the same face he’s seen every day for twenty-three years.

“You don’t have to--” Satin continues when Jon’s been silent too long. “It’s only because you _asked_.”

Jon thinks of Sansa’s selfies, with their high angles and filters, of her cheek pressed close to Arya’s while they make stupid faces. 

“I’m doing it.”

“You can text to the number we’re on.”

Jon takes the picture--he’s neither smiling nor scowling. Maybe it’s a security risk, but there’s nothing special about his face anyway. He’s just a boring, fatherless bastard from the North.

“You’re handsome,” Satin _surely_ lies, “I knew that already, though.”

“ _How?”_

“I hear _a lot_ of voices.”

The flattery works; Jon wants _more_ , “Well, now that you know?”

“I’d fuck you for free; would you let me?”

The _yes_ that leaves Jon’s mouth is the worst, most amazing thing he’s ever experienced. Satin, _whoever_ Satin is, has seen his face and heard him make that _noise_. Jon’s self-respect joins the Stranger in the afterlife, but the rest of him is really, _really_ turned on.

Satin gives that chuckle that Jon’s heard a dozen times now, “First, I’ll kiss you, slowly and thoroughly until you _absolutely_ want to die.”

Jon would let him; he can imagine the abstraction of Satin’s lips against his, wonders what they’d feel like, pressing against the pulse point on his neck. Wonders what they’d feel like anywhere and everywhere Satin wanted to put them.

He doesn’t even respond, just lets out a horrible, strangled noise to let Satin know he’s listening.

“Then I’d undress you,” Satin sounds like he _is_ reading a patient’s medical chart, dry and vaguely conversational. “Slowly, too, because you seem impatient.”

“ _Tease_.”

“You asked.”

“I--I want to touch you, too,” Jon slides his hands in his sweatpants again and grabs his cock. Jon doesn’t think he’s a marvel at giving a handjob, but no one has complained. “H-how?”

And, he can _learn._

“Slow,” Satin answers, “And I want you to look at me while you do it. No one _ever_ \--” He stops, like he’s toed over some invisible line and needs to step back.

“I’d look” Jon doesn’t lie, “The whole time, at anything you want to show me.”

Satin makes a noise Jon’s never heard before; it sounds like a _real_ noise, a shaky breath that he tries to mask with playful words, “You’d look good in my lap, I think.”

 _It’s fantasy_ , Jon tells himself, so the feasibility of the position doesn’t matter. They could talk through fucking on a boat, or on the _moon_. They could be anyone, anywhere.

“I--I can do that.”

“Who’d get you ready?”

“You.” Jon’s adamant about that, for some reason; his cock agrees, practically jumps out of his hand at the idea. Jon’s answer to shut his eyes, to imagine Satin in his hands instead of himself.

“ _Perfect.”_

“I’d go slow,” Satin muses, “not to tease you, but to make it _good_. How many fingers do you think you can take?”

“I--I don’t--”

“ _Three,_ ” Satin decides, and three it is; Jon would submit to any suggestion to keep Satin talking. “Can I do it now? Can I fuck you?”

“ _Yes.”_

And Jon, like a person who ate too many snacks at happy hour and doesn’t want his entrée, comes before Satin can even finish the fantasy. A single stroke, and it’s over. He thinks of Satin, on the other end of the line, and what Satin _wants_ , what he would give to--

“I want to hear you,” Jon whispers, “what would _you_ sound like, after that?”

Satin, making a sound Jon’s _definitely_ never heard before, seems to obey.

* * *

It’s a fitting end to what was, frankly, a wildly inappropriate interlude. Jon called Satin enough times that even Theon would side-eye him. He doesn’t call Satin the next night he works, and Jon makes it all the way exactly three weeks since the first night _without_ making a call.

He wants to ask Satin weird questions, like if he prefers pancakes to waffles. He wonders where Satin likes to shop, or if he starts to wonder, as his mid-twenties approach, if he’s even _doing_ anything with his life. Then, he realizes he doesn’t even know if Satin is in his twenties, he just _assumed---_

Because it was a _fantasy._ Jon wanted for Satin to be someone _real_.

That worst fucking thing is he _misses_ it, and that makes him an idiot.

“Jon,” Sansa says to him a few days later, after he’s stewed in his feelings enough that the entire thing is going to spill out of him with the slightest nudge. “You’re a broody dude.”

“I resent that.”

“That’s like resenting the weather,” Sansa replies, “It just _is._ ”

“Is not.”

“You look like you’ve got your own personal raincloud. What’s eating at you?”

Jon takes a deep, deep breath and says, “When Theon was in town, he texted me the number for a phone sex hotline.”

Sansa raises _both_ her eyebrows, “ _Ew._ That’s...in Theon’s lane, but not yours.” Theon’s lane was wide, and he really, _really_ liked to overshare what happened between those dotted lines.

“....I called it.”

“You _what?”_

“I know, I know--”

“ _You,”_ she points at him, “Jon fucking Snow, _called a phone sex hotline?_ ...Who’d you ask for?”

Jon’s eyes dart to the left, then to the right; the coffee shop is nearly empty. _No one is listening._ “A guy.”

Sansa _cackles._ She sounds like Arya and that is the _worst._ “I don’t need the details, in fact, _please spare me._ Why does it bother you? People do weirder things all the time.”

“I _may_ have called it one more than once.”

“... _Ouch_ to your wallet,” She takes a sip of her coffee and has to wipe whip cream off her nose.

“I may have called five or six times.”

“...Do you need to borrow money? I’ll do it, but you gotta tell people _why_.”

“ _No,”_ Jon snaps, “After the first time, I asked for someone _specific_ , and then...kept asking for that person. And I can’t afford to call again, so I haven’t, but I _keep_ thinking about him.”

“What’s his name?”

“...Satin.”

“That’s a phone sex operator name. Do you know his _real_ name?”

Jon shakes his head, “He said it _was_ Satin.”

“A lie. So, you want to meet him? Even though he's probably some sixty-year-old man?”

“He’s...not.” Jon doesn’t know _how_ he knows, but he can just feel it. 

“Oh, _Jon_ , you sweet summer child.”

The phrase, something their old babysitter Nan used to say when they were children, rankles him immediately.

“If you _heard_ him, you’d understand.”

“I’m sure." 

Sansa doesn't sound sure.

“His _voice_ , Sansa, it’s so---”

Sansa covers her ears with her hands, “No, no-- _stop!_ Jon, I’ve heard enough sex things from Jaime about Brienne, _please_ spare me. I’m not changing my major; I don’t _want_ to be a sex therapist.”

“I don't need sex advice," Jon snaps, "but I was wondering what you'd do."

"I think it's a bit late for that thought experiment."

"Sansa, I think I want to meet him."

_There. I said it._

“Listen," Sansa leans in closer. "I won't try to stop you because it won't work. I can tell by the look in your eyes."

"I don't know that I'm going to--"

 _"Be safe._ If you do this, meet in a public place and _tell me where you're going."_

* * *

Despite Sansa's advice, Jon doesn't do _anything_ , at least nothing tangible. He thinks, _a lot_ , contemplates dialing the fucking number and spilling his ridiculous thoughts to Satin, who Jon is certain would laugh at how quaint he's being.

He _might_ wait to hang up the phone first, which would be a kindness someone as ridiculous as Jon doesn't deserve. Instead, he tries to keep it to himself that he's slowly shriveling up inside and keeps touching himself to the memory of Satin's voice.

_I'd fuck you for free._

Another week passes, and there's a _million_ children with the flu, and work is awful. Even Brienne, who works on the floor above him where there's markedly less children, can't escape the germs.

"We went through a _vat_ of hand sanitizer," she tells him over lunch, "and I _still_ feel like I am going to get sick. You must want to die."

Jon absolutely wants to _die_ , but not just in the way Brienne thinks.

"So many snotty kids, Brienne," he shudders, "I've been puked on so many times that I lost count."

She's good for commiserating, though.

On a Thursday, Jon's going to fall asleep on the bus if he doesn't imbibe some caffeinated liquid, so he stops at a coffee shop near the bus station. It's not a usual haunt, so he stares at the menu for an entire minute to parse it.

_Bullet coffee?_

_Nitro coffee?_

_Beans imported from a place I literally can't pronounce._

Jon pulls his headphones out and orders a drip coffee with room, and when the barista asks what roast he wants, he just grunts _pick one._ The girl scoffs, probably because she thinks he's a philistine who doesn't know his coffee and will pollute it with sugar. Jon gives her his name when asked and digs his wallet out of his pocket.

...And that's when he _hears_ it.

"Um, a breve latte, I guess."

 _It's a coincidence._ Memory isn't reliable, but the same pull that made Jon call the number over and over makes him glance left. He's weak, and he's _curious._ And if he's wrong, well, there's nothing weird about looking around a coffee shop. 

"Can I have a name for the order?" The barista asks, and Jon freezes because _this_ the moment the universe proves to him that he knows _nothing_ , nothing at all.

"...Satin." 

The barista _laughs,_ "People give weird names _all_ the time.”

The crash between fantasy and reality is too much; he can't exist at the crux of a moment like this. "I don't think he's lying," Jon blurts, "and even if he is, who cares?"

Jon doesn't have a _type_. He liked Ygritte's hair, the color the fire. He liked Val's cheekbones. He kept staring at the ass of that single father who brought his kids to the office. Looking at Satin is like a bunch of buttons on a console that say _do not press_ \--only someone is pressing _all_ of them at once, and a klaxon is blaring. _Pretty._ Dark-eyed, raven curls, skinny jeans and a sweater.

Satin _looks_ at him, really, for the first time. 

He smiles and holds out his hand. Jon, on propriety, shakes it, and _oh seven hells they're touching._ "I'm Satin," he pauses and glances away, "...Flowers."

Jon's never given an _ounce_ of thought to the last name given to children from the Reach born out of wedlock. He thinks of _Snow_ frequently enough, of _whoever_ Lyanna Stark's partner had been.

But Flowers is fucking _perfect._

"I'm Jon Snow."

"I recognized you.”

"You weren't lying about your name."

"I told you I wasn't."

_Take that, Sansa._

Both their coffee orders appear at the counter simultaneously. Jon curls his hand around his like the warmth will ease his _utterly_ shattered nerves. Satin, for all his confidence on the phone, looks equally discomfited.

"Do you want to...sit?" Jon tries.

"I think I need to, yeah."

There's a round table free, small enough that their knees bump together; it makes Jon feel like someone poked him with a lightning rod. He’s never, _ever_ been good with small talk. If he’s going to have a conversation, he wants to be _invested._

“This is _so_ fucking weird.” Even if it’s a performance, he knows what Satin _sounds_ like, chuckling into the phone, _asking_ him things. What he doesn’t know is _anything_ else.

“It’s...something,” Satin says, “I, um, I’ve never _met_ anyone who’s called...”

“I can leave,” Jon replies, “We can just...pretend we _didn’t_.” That’s not what Jon _wants_ , not at all. What he wants is to drag Satin across the table and kiss him, to put into practice the vivid descriptions bouncing around in his head.

That’s fantasy, though, and _this_ \--Satin looking utterly _human_ and fragile, biting his lip, is _reality._ If Jon thinks this is the most awkward meeting of his _life_ , Satin must be feeling it tenfold.

“I don’t want that.”

Jon takes a sip of coffee, “Okay.”

“I’ve never looked forward to talking with someone before,” Satin leans in just a bit, “It’s a job; it’s a _better_ job than I’ve--anyway, I _wanted_ you to call again.”

Jon is kind of scared, and kind of horny, and _why_ is that a good combination? He never does _anything_ outlandish. “I...wanted to call you again.” 

“It’s expensive.”

 _Worth every dragon_ , Jon doesn’t say. “Horribly so--ruined my entertainment budget for two months.”

“I’m...not _that_ good.”

Satin drinks his breve; Jon watches the muscles in his throat move as he swallows. _Gods, but you_ are. _Just let me die already._ Jon can’t tell what’s _true_ , and he’s too afraid to ask.

“I found it satisfactory.” It comes out, way, _way_ too dry, but if Jon expresses his approval with an inch more emotion, he’s going to be _very, very_ inappropriate. 

Across the table, Satin starts laughing _hysterically;_ Jon wants to melt into the floor.

“Jon,” Satin radiates nerves, and Jon wants to take his hand, as though that would help. “We don’t know each other, but I think I’d like to.”

 _He’s longing for something_. Jon can feel it, a _want_ that echoes between them. It’s physical, but it’s _more_ , and no facet of it is coffee shop appropriate.

“Come home with me.”

* * *

Sam and Gilly are staring, red-faced from the steam, at a bubbling pot of beef stew when Jon unlocks the door to his apartment.

“Jon!” Sam calls out, “this stew is _over the top_ , so I hope you’re hungry-- _oh my gods_ , you have a stranger with you?”

“You’re. So. _Rude_ ,” Gilly smacks Sam in the arm, then holds out her hand. “I’m Gilly, and this is Sam. I don’t even live here, but I’m apologizing for the poor hospitality regardless.”

“I’m Satin,” he holds out his hand; Sam shakes it and glances at Jon as if to say _is this who I fucking think it is?_

Jon nods minutely; he should’ve _never_ told Sam anything.

“There’s plenty of food!” Gilly gets an extra bowl from the cabinet and ushers the three of them to the table. 

Jon will have to tell Gilly, later, that she’s _fucking amazing_. The atmosphere _should_ be tense, and one of them would definitely be within their right to ask who, and _why_ , but Gilly is blessedly skilled at smalltalk, and _no one_ says anything weird. He picks up details about Satin, the ordinary ones he doesn’t know how to broach when he’s having _flashbacks,_ when the fabric of the reality of meeting someone and being attracted to them is so disoriented.

Satin was born in Oldtown. He goes to community college, but he’s not sure what to study after his gen ed requirements are done. He likes the beef stew, asks for a second bowl, and praises Gilly’s cooking until she’s blushing like a teenage girl. He looks like he listens, genuinely, when someone is talking.

“Your name sounds like a fake one a porn star goes by,” Sam says, at one point, and Gilly puts her hand over his mouth, aghast.

“Maybe I missed my calling, ” Satin laughs. “No, I think my mother thought a fine name would bring me finer things than she had.” 

Jon is half in love with him by the time they finish eating.

Then, _then_ Satin points to the bookshelf filled with tabletop games, and says, “You play _Night’s Watch?_ I love that game!”

And Jon is just... _done_ ; Satin is it, and everything else is noise.

* * *

Then, they’re alone.

Door closed, away from Sam and Gilly’s too-knowing stares.

“The walls are thin,” Jon says.

Satin raises an eyebrow.

“Sam and Gilly, I mean,” Jon babbles, “They always--I mean, _we’ll know_. Not on purpose--”

“They’ll hear, too, then,” Satin replies.

“Oh, _oh_. You mean if we--”

Satin looks at the ground, “Did I read you wrong? The beef stew was _amazing_ , but I thought the invite was pretty...explicit.”

“I don’t _just_ want…” Jon wants sex, but he wants _more_.

_I’d fuck you for free._

_We don’t know each other, but I think I’d like to._

The next step is obvious--the meeting, _crashing_ , really, of fantasy with reality. Jon puts a hand on Satin’s shoulder, leans in, and kisses him. Satin is half-a-head shorter, so Jon has to lean down; he’s not tall, and he’s never kissed a man shorter than him.

When Jon pulls back, Satin is wide-eyed and vulnerable; the contrasts are throwing him for a loop. A _good_ loop, but one nonetheless. Then, Satin _smiles_. It makes his heart clench and staccato an uneven beat, and then Satin kisses _him_. 

And Satin is _busy._

Satin has one hand on his shoulder and another in his hair guiding him to the bed. When Jon sits, Satin puts one knee between his legs and looks down at him. Their noses are an inch apart, and even _this_ is better than a telephone call. This is chaste, but it’s tangible. This is Satin touching him.

“We never talked about kissing,” Satin muses. It’s a slow slide of mouths, and there’s so, _so_ much personality to garner from this. Jon takes one of Satin’s hands, notices how fine the bone structure is, how soft the skin. _How will that feel?_

Satin runs his tongue against Jon’s mouth, and Jon invites him in, lets Satin keep a hand at the base of his skull and guide him.

“I’m, um,” Jon says when he feels like he can’t breathe, “I couldn’t have articulated that anyway.”

“I could have,” Satin rests his forehead against Jon’s, “but it’s more intimate to feel it.”

 _Intimate._ The word rings true for Jon, and he works out a way to reel it in further. He puts a hand on Satin’s hip, over the fuzzy cables of the sweater he’s wearing. Satin seems to take the hint because when Jon moves to rest against the wall, Satin crawls into Jon’s lap. Jon embraces him, closes his eyes, and _waits._

“Jon,” Satin says after a few heartbeats, “can you talk to me?”

“Like...dirty?”

A chuckle, “Sure, but about yourself, too.”

“I work at a doctor’s office,” Jon says, “I’m a nurse-- _don’t laugh_ \--I, um, I live here, with Sam. We met in school. Gilly should be on the lease.”

Satin chuckles again, kisses the shell of Jon’s ear, “Go on, please.”

“I was born up North, near Winterfell. I was raised with my cousins.”

“How many?” Satin’s curls _tickle_ as moves his mouth down Jon’s neck.

“Five.”

“Busy house?”

_“Mhm.”_

“Snow?” Satin says the name against the collar of Jon’s t-shirt.

“My mother died when I was born, and I’ve never been told.”

“Mine never told me, either.”

Jon shakes his head, “It doesn’t matter. ‘Flowers’ is fine.”

“Then ‘Snow’ is, too."

 _What are names, anyway?_ Jon loves his family.

“Sometimes,” Satin whispers a moment later, “when people call, it’s like...a thought experiment. They’re trying to find a safe place to figure out if they like something. Is that you, Jon Snow?”

Jon, hand still on Satin’s hip, pulls him closer until they’re flush together. It took _nothing_ for Satin to make his cock ache, Satin should at least _know_.

“No, I like both.”

“I don’t,” Satin admits, “I mean, I can play the part, but if I have a choice--”

Satin’s eyes look dark, almost black in the low-light of the room. Jon could just _look_ for a long, long time, like staring at a moonless night sky. “You have a choice.”

“You wanted _me_ , from the first call. No one asks for just Satin.”

_You don’t know the half of what I want to ask for._

“It’s your voice,” Jon says, “it drove me _crazy_. I thought _whatever it comes with_ , I want it.”

Jon wants to say _more_ , more than he’s ever spoken aloud to anyone. He wants to _narrate_ the fucking encounter, so Satin knows he’s not thinking of being somewhere else or with someone else. The skin of Satin’s torso is smooth under his shirt as Jon’s hands wander under his clothes. His breath hitches when Jon lingers at a patch of skin on his side--the reaction is half-ticklish and half _more_.

He repeats the gesture and marvels at Satin’s slight movements. _Friction._ Anticipation.

The sweater goes first and gets stuck around Satin’s elbows. Impatient, Jon pushes Satin’s shirt up as far as he can to unearth what he’s touching. Satin is _pale_ , and slight, and _moans_ when Jon rubs a thumb over his nipple. Satin is at his mercy tangled in his clothes, just for a moment, and Jon _likes it._

He touches Satin again, and _again_ , planes and muscles, until Satin gets frustrated and wrenches his arms free.

In return, Satin is gracious and judicious in removing Jon’s clothes. He's quiet as he does so, only says things with his hands skirting the waistband of Jon's jeans, or the soft exhale of breath when Jon leans up forward to give Satin room to divest him of his shirt.

When they kiss, this time, it's with skin against skin, and Jon is going to absolutely _melt._ The only conflict is whether he wants Satin to kiss him or talk to him. _Why do those things have to be diametrically opposed?_

"Tell me more," Satin whispers the words against his lips, "When you called, this is where you were?"

_"Yes."_

Satin undoes his belt buckle, asking a question. Jon swallows the lump in his throat and nods. When Satin's hand wraps around his cock, it's _magic_ because he's imagined it everyday for the last three weeks, and Jon’s imagination is apparently lacking.

"The last time you called," Satin's voice is low and filled with promise. 

"The selfie," Jon gasps, puts a hand on Satin's knee that’s meant to steady him and fails _utterly_.

"I touched myself while we talked that night."

 _No, no no--don’t tell me that._ "Is that," Jon stumbles over the mental image. "Is that breaking a rule?"

Satin's grin is _wicked_ , "Who would know?"

"Just me.” His grip is _firm_ , and perfect, and Jon arches under his hand. “I-I wondered because you _sounded_ \--”

“You heard me come.”

 _Oh._ Jon wants to _watch_ that. “Next time, _show_ me--”

"Let me do one better," Satin _leaves_ , which is the opposite of better, until he drops his head into Jon's lap and puts his mouth on him. 

And Satin--

Satin _knows_ how to suck a cock. 

He talked Jon through this fantasy, and he _remembers_. He remembers that Jon wants to _drown_ , to be consumed and have everything else pushed from his mind. Satin laces their fingers together and Jon feels that staggering connection, that _thing_ he's looking for. As a show of gratitude, he doesn't deny Satin a single gasp or sigh, lets him _see_. Jon shuts his eyes, it feels like he's transcended to a higher plane, like his _soul_ is being ripped out through his---

Then, Satin _stops_.

"What the _fuck_?"

Satin laughs, flops back onto the bed and rests his head on Jon's leg. "I told you I'd stop _right_ when you didn't want me to."

" _Satin."_

"Jon," he glances at Jon. Half-naked on his bed, Satin is just a _vision_. "I want to do bad, _terrible_ things to you."

A shocking coincidence because that’s _exactly_ what Jon wants, too. 

"Please do."

Satin removes the rest of his clothes with such speed that Jon almost misses the entire procession. He decides to ask, _later_ , for a slower version of that. Or maybe he’ll do it himself, piece by piece. There’s gaps in Satin’s confidence, little hiccups that Jon wants to learn. Now that he’s naked, Satin’s pale skin is flushed. He sits on the edge of the bed and doesn’t make eye contact when Jon stares unabashedly. 

"You're staring at me," he says.

"I'd be an idiot not to."

“Why?”

Jon can’t tell if Satin’s query is genuine or a ploy to get him to talk, and he doesn’t care. “Because I _want_ you, and not just the words. You’re _beautiful._ I thought so when we spoke, and I knew that if we met, I’d just--” He kicks his jeans and underwear off the rest of the way. “We’re even, now.”

“I’ll fuck you,” Satin whispers, “if that’s what you want.”

“In the drawer.”

Satin goes, procures the lube and condoms, and something about the sight of them makes the entire situation feel _real_. 

“Ask me.” It’s not a command, but a request, and if it’s what Satin needs to hear, then--

“Please,” Jon replies, “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Satin sits next to Jon against the wall and holds out his hand, “What are you used to?”

“A-anything.”

“Not from behind,” Satin pauses, “I’ve gone enough without _seeing_.”

Jon throws his leg over Satin’s thighs, a mirror of their earlier position. Satin watches him move, leans into the touch when Jon presses his hand against his cheek. “Take me like this,” Jon explains, “I’d like to see, too.”

“Gotta do some work first, though.” Satin slides his fingers over the curve of Jon’s ass, “Wanna do it yourself?”

“Not if you’re here.”

Satin has the lube on the bed next to them, and Jon can’t see what he’s doing. He hears the click of the cap, and then Satin is _touching_ him. Not inside, not _yet_ , but soon, _soon_. He kisses Jon, sweetly, chastely, like they’re courtly lovers in an old tale. Not like the truth, which is Satin fucking him with his fingers, spreading him open.

“When we _talked_ ,” Satin makes the word laden with meaning, “Did you touch yourself like this?”

“Not during,” Jon gasps, “b-but _after_ , I laid here and--”

“Imagined me fucking you?”

“ _More_ ,” Jon begs, and Satin answers immediately, adds a second finger and makes Jon’s nerves light up. He _likes_ this part, the care of it, if it’s done right.

And Satin is so, _so_ right.

“How would you do this for me?” Satin catches Jon’s jaw with his free hand, “If I asked?”

“I’d go slow,” Jon, overwrought as he feels, finds the fortitude to keep talking. Satin is _everywhere_ , and soon to be closer. Jon pushes against his hand, grasping for _more._ “Just like you’re doing. I would want you to feel, to _know_ , what I’m feeling.”

Satin’s eyes flutter shut, long lashes dusting his skin. “And when I was ready, I’d tell you, and then we’d--”

For a moment, Jon has the upper hand; Satin is lost in the fantasy of their reversal. _I can give him that_. After, though, because there’s no way this is a one-time thing. He lubes up his hand and slides it up the shaft of Satin’s cock. Then, he fumbles for the discarded condom on the bed. Satin’s eyes fly open, and he looks momentarily disoriented.

“You wanted to see,” Jon doesn’t recognize his own voice, but the words keep coming, “so watch.”

It’s better to control it himself, to stop and take a breath if he needs it. Satin did enough-- _more_ than enough, so Jon goes down easy, wriggles until he’s comfortable enough to look back at Satin.

...Who looks absolutely awe-struck. Satin grips his shoulders, scrabbles for purchase; the lube on his hands doesn’t help. Jon rocks, an experimental movement, and no breathy moan through a phone can compare to the expression he witnesses. Satin stills entirely beneath him, leaves the rhythm up to Jon to find.

What Jon wants to find is what Satin likes--the pace and the rhythm that works for him. Jon wants to unpack him and put him back together. When he moves faster, Satin looks overwhelmed and digs his fingers into Jon’s shoulders. When he rises and sinks back down to the hilt, Satin cries out his name and drags Jon into a messy kiss.

“H-how,” Satin stutters between the kiss, “h-how do you feel so _good?”_

The question is one Jon would expect to ask Satin; he’s the one who talks, who weaves the fantasy. Only _that_ Satin isn’t the person beneath him. Satin, here, looks like he’s barely holding it together. Jon expected to be at Satin’s mercy and is quite enamored with it being the opposite.

So, Jon asks what _he_ wants to know, “How _do_ I feel?”

“T-tight,” Satin stumbles, “Hot. _Fuck_ \--it’s too much, I’ve never--”

There’s _more_ , but Satin babbles it, and Jon can’t piece the words together. It’s scraps, feelings that move too quickly for Jon to make sense of them. Sensation crashes over them, and Satin buries his face in the crook of Jon’s neck and _moans._ Jon doesn’t stop moving, finds the right angle that he knows will send him over the edge with enough repetition.

“Faster?”

Satin nods, and Jon obeys. He wants to push Satin off that edge with him.

“Can you come for me?”’

Satin nods into Jon shoulder, lets out a sound that’s nearly a sob. 

“I’ve got this,” Jon tells him, punctuates it by driving Satin as deep as he can manage. “I can do it.” Jon see stars, and it’s so, _so_ good that he comes between them, clenching around Satin’s cock.

Satin _swears_ through his orgasm, a litany of filth pouring from his mouth that Jon will find inspiring for a long, _long_ time to come. The words aren’t said in that silky phone voice that drove Jon up a wall for so many nights. They’re _raw_ , and Jon did that, and _just_ \--

“ _Fuck_ ,” Satin finishes, thrusts up into Jon erratically at the last of it. “Jon, _what is this?”_

And Jon, who always feels the most sentimental after an orgasm, tightens his hold on Satin and nearly blurts, _love_.

* * *

Jon needs a beer.

Well, maybe more than a beer, but beer is what he has, and it will have to do. He wanders to the kitchen, doesn't bother to put a shirt on. 

If Sam and Gilly heard the whole thing--which they _certainly_ did--a shirt won't protect Jon from their reactions. A shirt is no barrier against the fact that Jon just fucked someone he's known for _three hours._

It _feels_ longer, but it isn't. Objectively.

He opens a second beer; maybe Satin would like one. _Does he even like beer?_ Jon doesn't know, and that’s a problem.

Beer is refreshing; Jon could use something refreshing.

Satin is seated in the middle of the tempest they'd made of Jon's bed. Jon offered him a pair of sweatpants. Satin put them on while Jon was in the living room. He'd put his sweater back on, too, hugging it to him. His hair looks like Jon dragged his fingers through it too many times.

Mostly, Satin looks like something Jon _wants_. Again. _Right now_.

Instead, he hands Satin the beer.

"Thanks."

He takes a drink; Jon sits on the edge of the bed and does the same. He opens his mouth, twice, to say something, but closes it again after realizing he genuinely has _no idea_ what it would be.

"It's okay," Satin breaks the silence when he notices Jon is floundering, "It felt good, but it's just sex."

Jon still can't formulate anything.

Satin starts again, "Casual sex--"

"That wasn't casual," Jon interrupts, "I've brought someone home from a bar before; this _wasn't_ that."

That was like scratching an itch. It was momentary, better than taking care of it himself, but not _much_. Jon barely remembers things like that. 

This-- _this_ was, would be…

With him. For a long, _long_ time.

"It wasn't," Satin agrees, "but we don't know each other."

_Reality._

"What do you want?"

Satin looks him the eye, smiles around the beer bottle. "In the immediate, or in general?"

"Yes."

"...Sexually?"

"Yes."

"...Non-sexually?"

"Also yes."

Satin's laugh is a sweet sound that Jon could listen to forever. They're close enough to touch, so Jon puts his hand back on Satin's knee. 

" _You_ ," Satin answers. "Again. _Now_. Anyway you can think of."

" _Oh_."

"I want to trade places," Satin says the words in a rush and puts his hand over Jon's. "I--I don't usually--not _anymore_ , I mean. I _can_ like it, but it's not...you'd be _gentle_. And I'd like that--having you inside me, taking me apart like that--"

There's _something_ there, something to unpack, later. Something that Jon wants to know when Satin is ready to tell him. The idea, though, and Satin's fumbling delivery, burn straight through him. He stops himself from tackling Satin to the bed.

"You're so smooth on the phone," Jon replies, "but here, you're--"

" _Nervous_. I can't act here, I'm too--"

"Scared and horny?"

Satin nods emphatically. "What I want makes no sense."

 _It makes perfect sense._ Absurdity aside, few things have _ever_ made as much sense to Jon as this moment.

"I'd love," Jon places his half-empty beer on the nightstand, "to do what you ask. Slow, gentle, fast. _Anything_. Versatility is my only skill."

Satin is meant to be _his_ \--they're meant to belong to one another; Jon is certain.

"Jon."

"Keep going. What do you want after I fuck you?"

" _This_ is where it gets ridiculous," Satin rolls his eyes, "Don't laugh."

"Laughter is the furthest thing from my mind right now."

Like he needs the courage, Satin downs the rest of the beer. "I _like_ it here; I don't even _know_ it yet, and I feel... comfortable. I want to cram into this _absurdly_ small bed of yours and sleep."

Jon just _smiles._

"And I think we have to touch while we do it. There's no room, so--"

He takes the beer from Satin's hand, puts the bottle with his own discarded one, "How do we wake up?"

" _Close,"_ Satin shuts his eyes, imagining it. "You have your arm around me. Or maybe the other way around?"

"Whichever."

"And because, really, it's inevitable, when we're so close, you notice that I _want_ you."

"And I feel the same. Desperately," Jon pulls his feet off the floor and turns to face Satin. " _Enthusiastically_."

"And you make me late for class, but it’s worth it," Satin muses, "but maybe, after we would--" 

_Fuck again? Go on a date?_

"Hang out," Jon finishes, "like _out_ , out. It's Friday; you come to meet my cousin Sansa and her friends. You charm them. They like to tease me, so they _love_ how we met."

"You introduce me as Satin Flowers, the phone sex operator?" He sounds disbelieving.

"How do you _want_ me to introduce you?"

“...As someone you want to be seen with.”

“That’s easy.”

"I don't want to do it forever,” Satin furrows his brow, "but I've done worse, and it pays the bills. “

"Then it pays the bills," Jon replies, "until you don't need it to." 

It truly, _truly_ doesn't bother Jon. 

Satin looks at him for a long, long moment before smiling in a way that makes Jon's heart do a cartwheel. "After, we eat pizza and play _Night's Watch._ I break _all_ your house rules."

"...And Sam gets _so_ pissed, but it's just funny."

"Then, everyone leaves."

"Except Gilly," Jon amends, "Then, we try and _fail_ , utterly and shamelessly, at being quiet..."

"They clap through the wall," Satin finishes, "because who wouldn't congratulate us?"

Jon _tackles_ Satin, wrestles him to the bed until he's pinned beneath him, and kisses him. What Jon wants from Satin is an entire sentence--something with a beginning, a middle, and an end. 

"That is, hands down, the best fantasy we've _ever_ talked about."

**Author's Note:**

> I know smut is hard to comment on, but I'd LOVE to hear what everyone thought.


End file.
